


Self-Fulfilling Prophesy

by rubberbutton



Category: Deadpool (Comics)
Genre: Aftercare, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4181202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbutton/pseuds/rubberbutton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wade pisses off a goddess, and Peter has three days to convince him to apologize before she drags him to the Underworld.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-Fulfilling Prophesy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Dickiebirds](http://dickiebirds.tumblr.com/) for her fabulous beta services.

The patrol had been pretty quiet, and Peter was considering calling it a night. At least until he saw a strange person waiting to cross the road at Tenth Avenue, just below Thirty-seventh Street. He had to been nearly eight feet tall, and wore a trench coat and fedora. Peter also caught sight of a thin dark muzzle and red glowing eyes when he turned to check for traffic. It reminded Peter of a specific kind of dog, and it took his brain a second to remember which one – a jackal. 

Peter watched as the jackal started to cross the street towards the convention center. The other pedestrians passed the man without a second glance – though Peter couldn't tell if that was because the strange creature appeared normal to them or because they were New Yorkers. Peter followed him, swinging up the buildings as high as he could to avoid detection.

When they reached the convention center, Peter noticed other strange people approaching the convention center. At the corner bodega, a man in a top hat and tails was buying cigarettes. His face was a skull, with empty eye-sockets and large white teeth. He tipped his hat at the jackal, who nodded his own greeting. A woman with skin so pale it was nearly translucent ghosted down the sidewalk near them, her long white hair floating behind her like a contrail. Frost formed in licks and curls on the pavement as she passed. 

“Huh,” Peter muttered to himself. “Usually I'm the weirdest thing in this city. Or at least in the top ten.”

A group of very short beings hurried up the steps of the convention center and through the plate glass doors. Peter caught sight of cloven hooves and protruding tusks in the glass as they disappeared inside. Both the woman and the jackal Peter had been following came through after them, nodding to each other in recognition. Peter considered the pros and cons of following. Before he could reach any conclusion, however, the glass doors were violently thrown open, a commotion of people spilling out.Their long black robes made them look like monks, or possibly wizards. The swords they were swinging, however, was not very monk-like. Peter hunted for an adversary among the confused throng. He thought they were maybe fighting each other, until his gaze settled on a very familiar blur of black and red. 

“Dammit,” Peter swore, dropping down to the pavement. “Every time, I swear to god.”

In the thick of the violence, Deadpool dodged and whirled, cursing with both enthusiasm and creativity as the robed men swarmed around him. He looked like he was enjoying himself and Peter debated leaving him to it; mayhem was Deadpool's idea of a good time, so why interrupt? Then Deadpool lost his balance, nearly falling down the stairs in front of the convention center. He stayed upright, but left an opening in his defense, and one of the men took the opportunity, driving a wickedly curved knife up and under Deadpool's ribs. 

Deadpool grunted, the air driven from his lungs, and even from ten yards away, Peter could see the robed man twist the knife. A thrill of anger and adrenaline washed over Peter, and he was moving before he'd made a decision to interfere, slinging web to entangle the robed men, bringing them down one at a time. He yanked the man who'd injured Deadpool down, hard enough that he cracked his head on the steps, knocking him unconscious. 

“Oh hey, Spider-bro,” Deadpool said, grimacing as he straightened, yanking the knife out with a crimson spray of blood. He threw the knife aside. “What's up? Wanna go get a bite?”

“What the hell is going on here?” Peter asked. In addition to the men in black he'd subdued, a small crowd had gathered, both human and otherwise. 

“Oh, just thought I'd drop in on the Death Deity Convention,” Deadpool said. Already the bleeding had stopped, though he still held his hand over the wound. “I've got an ex I was hoping would be here.”

_“What?”_

“An ex-girlfriend. She'd mentioned it once when we were together, so I thought she might attend this year, but I didn't see her. She doesn't have a corporeal form, so I knew it was a long shot.” He shrugged, looking a little bummed.

“No, the _what convention_?” Peter said.

“Oh, the Death Deity Convention,” Deadpool said. “All the gods of death get together once a year and talk about the state of the afterlife. You know, Osiris, Hades, Hel – all those guys. Mictlantecuhtli is the keynote speaker this year.” 

“Huh,” Peter said, feeling like maybe he'd lost the plot somewhere along the way. “So how did you--”

“Insolent mortal, thou hast mightily offended us!” a booming voice, female though in no way feminine, interrupted Peter's question. Everyone assembled turned as a figure strode through the doors – the glass shattering before her. She was six feet tall with broad shoulders, wearing a loose, black gown. The sleeves were gathered at the shoulders, leaving her muscular arms bare. Half of her black hair was gathered on top of her head in a complicated set of braids, while the rest fell down her back. Her skin had a green cast in the sunlight. 

“Sorry, dollface,” Deadpool said. “I ain't exactly Miss Manners.”

“Who is that?” Peter asked under his breath. 

She turned her dark gaze towards Peter; her hearing was good. “We are Alecto, the unyielding, the black-eyed goddess of Tartarus and the Abyss. Prosecutrix of the unworthy. Lady of Prophets.” 

“I'm Spider-man. Uh. Man of Spiders.”

“Thy friend hast done our priests great injury.” 

“Okay, to start off, _friend_ is overstating it,” Peter said. 

“And the one called Deadpool must die for this offense,” Alecto said, crossing her thick arms and pulling herself up straighter. Her voice left Peter's eardrums ringing. 

Deadpool gave a derisive snort. 

Peter shot him a dirty look and then turned back to Alecto. “Everyone wants him dead. Unfortunately, that's not really an option. Believe me, many have tried, all have failed. He has this healing factor thing,” Peter said, gesturing to the nearly-healed wound on Deadpool's side. “Look, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. Deadpool is an idiot, but he's harmless.”

She bridled, throwing her hair back over her shoulders. “Harmless? He killed two of our death-priests and injured a score of others, and offered us great insult.” Her lip curled, and she said through clenched teeth, “He waggled his _bare buttocks_ at us.”

Deadpool shrugged sheepishly, a _what-can-you-do?_ expression on his face. 

“Okay, maybe _harmless_ wasn't the right word,” Peter hedged. 

“Perhaps we cannot kill him, but we do not have to kill him to send him to the Underworld. We can take him there directly and devise a number of elaborate punishments at our leisure.” She pursed her lips. 

A chill went down Peter's back. “That's really not necessary. I'm sure he's sorry and is going to apologize.”

“Does he readily admit his error and offer redress to those wrongs?”

“....Yes,” Peter said without confidence. “Or, I will see that he does.” He looked over at Deadpool, who was shaking his head with an emphatic no.

“Very well,” she said, with a small shrug that seemed to suggest she knew exactly how likely that was. “The conference lasts three days and then we return to the Underworld. If he has not apologized to our satisfaction by then, we're taking him with us. Meet us at Pier 64 at dawn three days hence.”

With a small _zap_ and the acrid scent of ozone, she disappeared. 

“Yeah,” Peter said aloud. “You're screwed.”

\---

Deadpool sheathed his katanas, stalking away from the goddess and her minions. 

“Wait, where do you think you're going?” Peter called after him, jogging to catch up. “You've got to apologize.” Deadpool ignored him, and if anything, moved a little faster. 

Deadpool booked it down the street, Peter on his heels. He turned abruptly, turning down a set of stairs to enter a basement bar. He went to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and snatched the bottle from the bartender when the man poured the shot. Deadpool downed the shot and then most of the bottle in one long slug. 

His torn clothes, left great swathes of bloodied skin visible. The wounds beneath had closed already, leaving pink scar tissue that would soon fade altogether. The area around Deadpool cleared out, a clear circumference around him as if he had a negative polarity. The only people left were a couple of drunks in an oblivious stupor. 

Usually fights left Deadpool jubilant and wired, and the fight with Alecto' death-priests had been of the particularly dirty brand of violence at which Deadpool excelled. But now his expression was grim and angry, his mask hiked up just far enough to drink. He turned as Peter approached. “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he said, and took another long swig. 

“You pissed off a demigod,” Peter said. He reached to take the whiskey away, but Deadpool snatched it out of reach, sloshing a great deal of it down his front. His reflexes were slower. It took a lot of alcohol to really effect him, but when he set his mind to it, Deadpool could get wasted. 

“Yeah, so? She can't make me dead.”

“She can make you suffer.”

Deadpool rolled his eyes, or at least Peter was pretty sure that was what was happening. It was hard to tell under a mask. “Let her do her worst. I don't give a shit.”

“What started the fight? I assume you weren't getting paid.”

Deadpool shook his head. “They started it. One of the priests pissed me off, is all. I am not about to let some punkass priest disrespect me like that. Right, homes?” He held out a fist to bump, which Peter ignored. 

“Must have been pretty bad if it was worth murder and mayhem.”

“It was a very personal remark,” Deadpool sniffed. 

“Look, I know you don't care, but you have got to apologize. She can make your life hell – literally. You've got to get your shit together," Peter said. "No one's going to going to try and stop her from dragging you to hell."

"She can try." Deadpool shrugged. 

"Dammit," Peter said, frustrated. 

"What's it to you, anyway?"

"I --" Peter started, but was interrupted by the appearance of a large, brawny man, looming over his elbow. He didn't appear to be anything other than human, though who knew, really?

"You need to leave. I don't appreciate people wrecking my bar."

Deadpool set the whiskey down, leaning back in his chair until he was precariously balanced on the two back legs. "Nobody appreciates my artistic vision. And I do consider myself an artist. Violence is my canvas."

“What is that supposed to mean?" the guy asked. 

“It means time to die," Deadpool replied. He seized his katana and would have disemboweled the guy, but Peter had anticipated the move, throwing web so that it caught Deadpool's wrist and stopping the blade mere inches from making contact.

Deadpool leaped up, turning on Peter. "You want to go, little spider? Let's go." He yanked his mask into place with his free hand, then upended the table. Peter jumped up to cling to the ceiling as the table landed in the space he'd just left. A katana buried itself just to the left of Peter's head. 

He yanked the webbing attached to Deadpool's wrist, nearly pulling the mercenary from his feet. He spun web as fast as he could, working to entangle Deadpool. It was fighting dirty, especially since Deadpool had succeeded in getting drunk and was a lot slower to react, but Peter knew he had little chance of defeating Deadpool in hand-to-hand combat.

He leapt from wall to wall to ceiling again, tightening the trap, until Deadpool was immobilized, his arms and legs pinned. He tottered in place for several long seconds before toppling over, yelling obscenities.

Peter dropped to the floor to stand over Deadpool. The bar had emptied entirely during the fight.

"If you wanted to try the kinky stuff," Deadpool snarled, "you should have just said."

Peter ignored the comment, seizing him roughly and slinging him over his shoulder. 

He didn't take Deadpool back to his apartment. The walls were to thin for one, and it was hard enough sneaking himself in sometimes. But he had a number of places to crash when he needed to disappear, get a change of clothes and clean up. The closest was an old warehouse. It had been closed for the better part of two years, a planned renovation that had stalled when permitting issues forced a halt to the project. 

He swung up to the rusted fire escape, dragging Deadpool up behind him. The foreman's office was on the second floor. It was one of his favorite hideouts, and he'd spent a lot of time bringing scavenged furniture up and arranging it. The electricity had been cut off, but the water was still on in the tiny bathroom off the office, though it left a bitter, metallic aftertaste when he drank it. He felt a moment of sharp annoyance; he'd have to stop using it, now that Deadpool knew it was here. 

He'd pushed the old desk aside to make room for an old air mattress, and he deposited Deadpool there. Deadpool had been uncharacteristically quiet and Peter thought that maybe he'd passed out, but no - he was watching him with a tense, almost wary expression under his mask. 

He lit a camping lantern, which gave the room a warm yellow glow, yet failed to chase the darkness from the corners. He pulled off his mask and gloves, running a hand through his hair. 

“This is my city. I can't let you cut a bloody swathe through it. And I'm not going to let that drama school reject demigod put you in box and leave you to rot for the rest of eternity.”

He crossed to the air mattress and straddled Deadpool, settling on top of him so that his full weight pressed him down into the mattress. Deadpool shuddered but didn't try to dislodge him. He reached down to remove the mask. 

“No!” Deadpool cried, the first word he'd said since the bar, but Peter had already pulled it off. Even in the gentle glow of the camp lantern, his face was a ruin. Raw skin scabbed and ridged with scars, completely bald save for a few stray hairs which only served to make the baldness more jarring. But his eyes were clear blue, and his only genuinely attractive feature. 

“Wade,” he said, trying out the name. “I'm Peter.”

“I know,” Wade said softly. He turned his face away, shutting his eyes tightly. 

“No, I want you to look at me. Look at me,” he repeated himself as Wade resisted. Blue eyes, filled with uncertainty and fear and something Peter thought might be hope, met his again. “You've fucked up pretty bad, and you've fucked up pretty often. But I'm not going to let you fuck up any more. I am not going to _allow_ you to.” 

“You seriously misunderestimate my ability to fuck things up, if you think you can stop me.”

“I am intimately familiar with your abilities. They are just no longer an option for you. You belong to me now.” Peter had a moment to wonder what the fuck he was doing. He hadn't had any real plan when he'd brought Wade back here. It had just been an out of the way place without the opportunity for civilian casualties. He was in over his head already, could practically feel the water closing over him. He waited for Wade to start laughing, start fighting, start trying to kill him. 

Wade didn't. Instead, he gave a small, nearly imperceptible nod. 

Shit. Shit. Okay.

He shifted and got up, finding a knife – in Wade's boot, of course – and started cutting through the webbing on Wade's legs and ankles. He worked in silence, acutely aware of that he was being watched. When the lower half of Wade's body was free, Peter seized each of his boots and yanked them off. He reached for the waistband of Wade's suit, and  
Wade flinched. 

Peter hesitated. “You can keep your boxers on, but these are filthy and leaving blood stains.”

“Not wearing any boxers.”

“Is chafing not a problem for you?” Peter couldn't help but ask. 

Wade shrugged. “Healing factor.”

“Right.” He tugged, pulling the cloth down and pulling it over Wade's feet. He kept his gaze down at his hands, ignoring the glimpse of Wade’s cock in his peripheral vision. “Do you need to piss?”

“No?”

“I'm tying you up again, so this may be your last opportunity for awhile.”

“Then yes, I do,” Wade said. 

“Bathroom's through there.” Peter nodded at the door off the back of the office. 

“Are you going to free my hands?”

“No.”

“But how-”

“Make it work,” Peter said. 

Wade rose awkwardly, his arms bound and naked from the waist down. He left the door open, only his back and buttocks visible from where Peter waited. For a long moment nothing happened. 

“Problems?”

“I have a shy bladder.”

Peter leaned through the doorway and turned on the tap so that water trickled into the sink. “Better?”

“Yes. And you can't watch me.”

“Fine.” Peter left the door open but retreated until he couldn't see into the bathroom. At last, he heard the sound of water hitting the toilet bowl, and finally, a flush.

Wade appeared a moment later. “You're going to have to do some mopping.”

“Fine.” Peter motioned to the air mattress. “Lie down.”

Wade flopped down and the air mattress made a plasticky groan of protest. Peter spun web around each ankle, then fixed it to the wall. It wasn't ideal; Wade could rip through the drywall if he exerted himself, but it would have to do. 

He freed one arm and then the other, cutting straight through the fabric of Wade's suit rather than trying to disentangle it from the layers of webbing. He sat back on his haunches, surveying his work. Wade lay before him, spread eagle and, even if he wasn’t beautiful, there was something graceful in his proportions, in the way lean muscle covered bone. 

“Circulation?” Peter asked.

“Good,” Wade said, but his voice was strained, and he kept catching his breath in short, shallow inhalations. 

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Wade bit out. Sweat was beading on his temples and upper lip. Peter waited, forcing his own breath to be slow and deep, despite the pounding of his heart in his ears. “It's just -- this is how they had me. When they...” He didn't finish the thought; he didn't need to.

Peter lay down on the floor next to the air mattress, and then reached out and laid his hand on Wade's side, fingers splayed along his ribs. And he just left it there, Wade's skin hot and damp under his touch. 

“Sorry, I don't usually get flashbacks anymore --”

“Hush,” Peter said. “Don't explain. I'm not going to hurt you.” 

Eventually, Wade's breath slowed, grew steady and even. Peter tried stroking along his flank slowly, from hip to juncture of shoulder and arm and back again. Wade tensed and then relaxed, sagging into the mattress with a deep sigh. 

Peter sat up, propping himself up with an elbow. “I need you to trust me.” 

“Okay,” Wade said, gaze steadfast on the ceiling. 

Peter laid his hand along the side of his face and brought and turned it toward him. He fought to hold Wade's gaze with his own, feeling as though he was the one naked and vulnerable. 

“I trust you,” Wade said. “I always have.”

Peter stood and retrieved a large shallow bowl and one of the clean t-shirts he'd stashed. He filled the bowl with cold water – the hot water didn't work, but it was warm in here anyway – and brought both back to the air mattress.

He dipped the t-shirt in the water and wrung it out before using it as a makeshift washcloth to wipe Wade's face. 

“Wha-” Wade sputtered. “You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm washing you. You need it. Hold still.” He dabbed a spatter of dried blood from Wade's neck, rinsing the cloth and running it down his arms and armpits. There was a raw knot of scar tissue along Wade's bicep, and Peter hesitated. 

“It it painful?”

“Pretty painful.” Wade gave as much of a shrug as his bonds allowed. “'M used to it.”

“Does anything help?”

“Not really. Gets worse if my skin is dry, though.”

Peter worked as carefully as he could, changing the water twice when it turned red and muddy with grime and blood. As Peter reached Wade’s stomach and thighs, Wade's cock grew tumescent and needy. He ignored it.

He finished running the cloth over Wade’s skin, lingering over the deep arches of Wade's feet, and then dumped the water in the shower, hanging the ruined shirt over a towel rail. Then he grabbed a bottle of water from his stash of food and cracked it open. 

“Here,” he said, and held it so Wade could drink, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. When Wade had enough, Peter finished off the bottle then tossed it aside.

He eased his weight onto the air mattress, praying it wouldn't give out under the added pressure, lying on his side so that his face was level with Wade's. 

“Are you going to fuck me?” Wade asked, a little breathy, but no longer tentative.

“Do you want me to?” Peter said, trying to keep his tone neutral. He'd never really thought about it before – never really allowed himself to think about it – but now the idea sent a jolt of fire through his belly and made his cock harden. 

“Yes, please,” Wade said, his own cock so hard it looked almost painful. 

“I'm not going to--” Wade whined a protest at that, “--at least not tonight. But I'll touch you.”

Wade's hips arched up off the mattress in enthusiastic agreement. “There's lube in my belt. You know, if you need it.”

“That … really doesn't surprise me at all,” Peter said, reaching for the discarded belt, and rummage through Wade’s pants until he found the lube – and a pair of boxer shorts that looked disturbingly like a pair he'd lost three months ago. 

He poured a generous amount measure on his palm, and then, trying to steady his trembling hand, applied it to Wade's waiting cock. Wade whimpered and bucked his hips. 

“Bit cold,” he said, choking. 

“Shush. It'll be warm in a minute.” 

Peter had never touched a cock other than his own before, and he gave it a few experimental strokes. It was thicker than his own, proportionate to Wade's height, and ridged with minimal scar tissue, thank god. 

Peter settled in, his body curved around Wade's. He propped himself up with a pillow to both get a better access and a not at all unpleasing view of the action. He leaned in, nosing Wade's ear. 

“I want to make you feel good,” he said, voice low, barely audible. “You've been waiting a long time for this. I know you have.” He teased his thumb over the head of Wade's cock, and Wade's breath caught in his throat. He tried different rhythms, taking his time, enjoying the twitch of Wade's skin as he found a particularly sensitive spot. Wade's hips canted upwards in trying to hurry the pace Peter set. His eyes were tightly shut, his face turned toward Peter.

“Keep talking,” he said, voice hoarse. “Please.”

“How many times have you touched yourself, thinking of me? Imagining it was my hand, instead of your own? Did you think it would ever happen?” Peter took Wade's earlobe between his teeth, sucking on it gently before releasing it. “You've been tempting me to do this since the day we met. All the innuendos, the joking come-ons. You were just daring me to take you.” His speed had increased throughout this speech, and Wade was making breathy little whimpers on each exhale. 

“And now I’ve taken you. You belong to me.” He gave Wade's ear another nibble. “Hmm, maybe next time, if you're very good, I'll use my mouth--”

Wade shuddered and came in forceful spurts, come splattering up his stomach and across Peter's hand. Peter watched the come drip down his palm. His cock was straining against the confines of his suit. 

He pushed himself up and straddled Wade, pushing his waistband down just far enough to free his cock. The lube had disappeared over the side of the mattress and he didn't bother retrieving it, wiping Wade’s come over his cock and using it to stroke himself. 

“Hey, let me --” Wade protested, pulling at his restraints.

“Privileges are earned,” Peter said. He wanted to make more of a show of it, but he was already too close, and Wade's expression of desire and hunger pushed him over the edge. He collapsed forward, catching himself on his hands, face inches from Wade's. He closed the space between them, deliberately taking Wade's mouth with his own. Wade’s mouth opened under his, allowing Peter's tongue entrance. Peter kept the kiss soft, more affection than need. 

“Jesus,” Wade said, when Peter broke the kiss. “I need a cigarette.”

“You need a shower,” Peter countered, observing the sticky mess now drying down Wade's front. “That's going to take more than a t-shirt.” There were white streaks drying on the thighs of his suit. “I don't know how I'm going to explain this to the dry cleaners.” He stood and quickly stripped, feeling more self-conscious of his stained suit than nudity. 

He found the knife and worked to free Wade, taking a moment to rub each hand and foot to help circulation return. Wade stretched, testing his newly freed limbs. His gaze was on Peter, features composed, deceptively calm. 

“Move over,” Peter said, lying back down. “You take up a lot of space.”

“I didn't take you for a post-sex snuggler,” Wade observed, scooting over to make room for Peter. 

Peter shrugged a little, using his discarded shirt as a rag to sop up the worst of the mess on Wade's stomach. “There's a lot about me you don't know.”

It took some situating to find a position in which no one's arm was was pinned uncomfortably, finally settling in a position with Wade's head cradled between Peter's shoulder and neck, curled up against his side. Their arms draped around each other. Peter traced the line of Wade's arm from the point of his shoulder to his wrist with the tips of his fingers and back again, watching goosebumps rise in their wake. 

“Do you need anything? Are you hungry? We could order a pizza or something.” 

“No,” Wade said, “'M good. Thanks, Master.” He stretched and nuzzled the side of Peter's neck.

“Don't call me that.”

“What would you prefer? Sir?”

“Peter is fine.”

“Sure, Boss.”

Peter huffed a half laugh, half sigh. “You're ridiculous.”

“Are you going to punish me?”

The question sent a queer jolt through Peter, a mixture of antipathy and something very like desire. “I'm not really into punishment. I'll stop you from hurting yourself or others, but otherwise I work more on a rewards system.”

“What if I want you to punish me?” 

“If you want it, it's not a punishment,” Peter pointed out. He thought about it for a minute and then shifted so that he could look Wade in the eye. “If you want me to – to punish you, I think I could.”

“...Maybe,” Wade said. 

“You don't have to think about it now, anyway,” Peter said. It was late and both the fight and the orgasm had left him worn out and pleasantly relaxed. He let his eyes drift closed, meaning to get back up and rinse off, but falling asleep instead. 

When he woke up some time later, it was still too dark to be morning. He'd rolled onto his side, Wade spooned up behind him, his ass cradled in the curve of Wade’s hips, head cushioned on Wade's bicep. Wade's other arm tightly encircled his waist. He desperately had to piss, and carefully worked to disentangle himself without waking Wade. 

The lantern had burned out, so he made his way to the bathroom by feel. He washed his hands when he was finished, splashing water on his face. He returned to air mattress. It had sprung a slow leak, and his hands sunk into it as he settled down. 

“You don't have to stay,” Wade said. It was too dark to see his expression. Peter had thought he was asleep.

“Go back to sleep,” Peter said. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Wade settled, and eventually, his breath grew deep and even.

\---  
The next time Peter woke it was early morning, grey light streaming in through the bay of dirty windows above the factory floor. 

He showered quickly, scrubbing himself down under the cold water. He only had a couple of scratchy towels he'd stolen from the Y. He set one out for Wade and dried off with the other, wrapping it around his waist. 

Wade was awake when he left the bathroom.

“I left you a towel. Sorry there's not hot water.”

“I've suffered worse,” Wade said with a shrug, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Peter sorted through the clothes he'd stashed, unhappy with the selection. Most of these had been selected based on cost, rather than style, rummaged from the thrift store or lost-and-found. He selected the least offensive t-shirt and a pair of somewhat threadbare jeans for himself. Nothing he had would fit Wade, so he just picked the largest he had and set them out. 

He lay back down on the mattress, avoiding a couple of damp spots, and waited, listening to the shower run. Wade took a long time, long enough that Peter was beginning to worry. But he appeared just as Peter was thinking of coming to check on him. He had the towel wrapped around his head.

“There are some clothes,” Peter said, motioning to the desk. “They're not fashionable, but they'll keep you from getting arrested.” He looked away while Wade pulled them on. The t-shirt was too tight and too short, accentuating his biceps and revealing a sliver of stomach. He stood uncertainly, when he finished.

“How about breakfast?” Peter asked.

\---

They went to an all-night greasy-spoon which mostly catered to alcoholics and hipsters. Wade insisted on wearing his mask and his utility belt, which looked all the more incongruous with his t-shirt and sweatpants, but it wasn't a battle that Peter felt like picking. And in any case, the waitress didn't bat an eye as they slid into a booth in the back corner. 

Peter ordered a french toast and a side of hashbrowns; Deadpool got the huevos rancheros and two orders of bacon. 

“So is this a thing we're actually doing?” he asked, pulling his mask up to drink his coffee. Peter looked at him. “You know, sober light of day and all? I know I look a lot better in the dark, so, if you were reconsidering, I wouldn't hold it against you. Hardly anyone makes it to a second date.” He took a sip and shrugged. “I'm just curious.” 

“So this doesn't count as a second date?” Peter said. “I'm buying you breakfast.”

“Anytime I stay over, breakfast is included.”

“Good to know,” Peter said. “I've got to budget for that.”

“Yeah, you better. I've got a big appetite.”

They ate quietly, and Peter kept catching Wade staring at him, smiling softly. When he realized he'd been caught, Wade's smile would turn broad and sheepish and he'd look away, only to do it again as soon as Peter was distracted. 

Peter waited until the waitress brought the bill, and he fished out some cash, saying, “You're going apologize to Alecto.”

The smile melted off Wade's face, and he yanked his mask back in to place. “Like hell.”

“Why not? You killed two of her priests. That's got to at least be worth an apology. If anything, you're getting off light.”

“Doesn't matter why, I'm not going to.” He stood, thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants.

Peter rose and followed him out onto the sidewalk. Wade took four or five steps and then turned to him. “No. Nein. Njet. It's not a discussion. Whatever you think you're doing. Whatever you think we were doing last night.” His voice carried, and several people turned as they passed.

“Fine, we can table the discussion – for now. I've got to go shoot Little League team photos anyway,” Peter said, before things could escalate. “I'll see you later, all right?” He headed for the nearest subway stop, irritated. If he didn’t want to be late, he'd have to hurry back to his apartment to change and grab his equipment.

He didn't see Wade follow him, but was somehow not at all surprised when he dropped down onto the seat next to Peter as the train pulled away from the station.

“You mad, bae?” Wade leaned into him, resting his head on Peter's shoulder. 

“I'm not mad,” Peter said, though even to his own ears he sounded annoyed. He shrugged away from Wade. “I'm frustrated.”

“Don't think about it, then.” Wade draped an arm around the back of Peter's seat, knees splaying as he slouched. “Think about dinner at my place tonight. I'll cook.”

“Do you know how to cook?” 

“Sure I do.”

“I didn't know you had skills other than killing people.”

“Oh, baby, you got no idea. I got all kinds of skills,” Wade said, his lascivious grin somehow obvious despite the mask obscuring his face. 

He leaned in, his face inches from Peter's, and whispered, “Give us a chance to earn some of those _privileges_.” A hand on Peter's knee slid upward, and Peter quickly intercepted it.

“ _Fine_ ,” Peter said, still feeling churlish and annoyed, though his ill-humor was fast eroding under Wade's antics. “Stop groping me in public, and I'll come over. Text me your address.”

Wade removed his hand, but failed to relinquish the rest of Peter's personal space. Peter had to get up anyway, his stop was next. He began to work his way through the press of people waiting for the doors to open. Wade followed him. 

“I've got work. I'll see you later, all right?”

“Want to make out for a bit first?” 

“I'm running late as it is,” Peter said. He was braced against a pole by the door, yet Wade had somehow worked his way next to Peter, using the crush of people as an excuse to press up against him. The train squealed as it went into the station. 

“You're incorrigible,” Peter said. He reached up and slipped a finger under Wade's mask, pulling the red fabric as he traced a line up Wade's throat and over his chin, exposing his mouth. Then he hooked his other hand around the back of Wade's neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss. It was only when the doors hissed open behind him that Peter reluctantly broke away.

“Jesus, get out of the damn way, you big gay weirdos,” a woman said while shoving past, but neither of them looked at her. 

“See you tonight,” Peter said, stepping through the doors just as they closed. He caught a glimpse of Wade, mask still awry and mouth half-open, as the train pulled out of the station. 

\---

He spent the afternoon trying to convince kids to hold still and not pick their noses or make faces long enough for him to take a picture. By the time he was done, he was tired and sweaty, and his nerves were completely shot.

He went back to his apartment to shower and get changed, then checked his phone. He had six new messages from Wade: one was his address and four were demands to know what was taking him so long. The last text was a series of dick pics.

 _Soon_ , Peter texted back, by way of response. Wade's address was on the Lower East Side, in a six floor walkup that far nicer than Peter would have assumed. Wade buzzed him in, and he made his way up to the top floor.

Peter reached the door and knocked. "Door's open," Wade called. Peter twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. What greeted him was an apartment awash in late afternoon light from a wall of windows, french doors which led out onto a rooftop terrace, hardwood floors, and a sixteen foot ceiling.

“Wow,” Peter said. “You live here?”

“Yeah,” Wade said, looking at him over the island of a galley kitchen. “Bought it a few years ago. Had to kill some really important people – don't give me that look, they were evil. I'm pretty sure.”

Peter let it pass. “I am never taking you back to my basement apartment. I mean, the black mold isn't going to kill you, but still, it's not pleasant.”

“Do you want a drink?”

“Sure, whatever you're having is good,” Peter said, taking a seat on a bar stool at the island. Wade had an apron on over sweatpants and a black t-shirt. He still had his mask on, though he had pulled it up, leaving his mouth visible. A pot simmered on the stove, some kind of sauce which smelled garlicky and delicious. Bits of tomato and onion littered a cutting board. 

Wade poured Peter a glass of dark red wine. “You didn't have to go to all this trouble.”

“I like to cook,” Wade replied with a shrug. “And I might be trying to impress you.”

“Mission accomplished,” Peter said, taking a sip of his wine. 

“You haven't even tasted it yet. Got the recipe from the grandmother of a mafia don I worked – you know what, never mind. It's authentic.” Wade turned towards the stove to stir the sauce, and Peter took the opportunity to admire the curve of his ass under the low-slung sweatpants. Wade turned back and caught Peter looking, and smiled toothily. “Like what you see?”

Peter felt himself flush, which was ridiculous. He'd seen Wade naked less than twenty-four hours ago. He shrugged. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” Wade growled. He rounded the island slowly, like a predator closing in on his prey, and the hair on the back of Peter's neck stood up. “Not bad, he says.” He stepped between Peter's knees, hands braced on the island. Peter leaned backwards until the granite of the countertop pressed into his back. He reached up and hooked his fingers through the strings of the apron around Wade's neck, and pulled him in to take his mouth in a fierce kiss. 

“Not bad at all,” Peter said, a little breathless as the kiss ended. He went in for another, but Wade sidled away. 

“Dinner's ready,” he singsonged. “Come and get it!”

Puttanesca sauce with pasta, a green salad and garlic bread. Peter was torn between wanting to gorge himself and knowing that if he did so, it would negatively affect his sexual performance. 

“It's a little early in the relationship for fat sex,” he said, turning down a second helping.

“Is it?” 

“Yeah, trust me, watching me gorge myself on pasta is a romance-killer.” 

“No – is it a relationship?” Wade poured himself another glass of wine, the task seeming to take a great deal of his attention.

“Oh, uh. Maybe?” Peter took a deep breath. “I mean, yeah, if you want it to be. I didn't give you a whole lot of options last night.” And he felt pretty guilty about it now. “But I don't regret it. And it's early but I kind of want to see where this is going...”

“Do you want to fight?” Wade asked suddenly.

“Wait, what?” Peter said, confused.

“It's okay if you don't; I'm pretty intimidating. And I'm a lot taller than you.” Wade stood, bouncing a little from foot to foot like a prize-fighter. 

“You're _slightly_ taller than me, and I'm way stronger than you. It's not even a fair fight,” Peter said. 

“Oh please,” Wade said. “Come on, fight me.”

“Fine,” Peter said, throwing his napkin down onto the table and rising. “Let's do this. It's not going to take more than five minutes.”

“Think you're going to lose that fast, huh. Maybe you're right; I'm one of the best fighters in the world.”

“You're pretty good,” Peter allowed, his pulse speeding up as he warmed to the idea of wiping the smug look off Wade's face. “With a gun. Anyone can win a fight with a gun.”

Wade made a sound of outrage. “My hand-to-hand combat skills are fucking amazing.”

“All right, then where are we doing this?”

Wade led him out onto the terrace, which was empty save for a grill in one corner.

“No weapons,” Peter said as they faced off. Wade was barefoot, so he stepped out of his own shoes and pulled off his hoodie. 

“No web slinging, no climbing on the walls. That's cheating,” Wade replied, taking off his apron and throwing it aside. 

“Try not to disfigure me permanently.”

“Deal. I'd never do anything to ruin that pretty face.” Wade held out a hand to shake on the terms. 

Peter took it, Wade's large hand engulfing his own. Wade's grip was tight – almost painfully so. He didn't let go, instead yanking Peter forward and off his feet. The world spun, and Peter found himself on his back, staring at the reddish-orange sky, the wind knocked out of him. Wade still had a grip on his hand, twisting it up and behind him, so that Peter's elbow locked painfully. 

Peter bucked and got his feet under him, rolling against the thumb of Wade's hand to break his grip. 

“You fight dirty,” he said, as he caught a breath.

Wade shrugged, and then lunged again. “Well … _yeah_.” 

Peter evaded his grasp, getting a punch in as he dodged away. He pulled the punch, but just a little, and it was gratifying to see Wade grunt and wince. But instead of making Wade more cautious, he just threw himself at Peter with increased ferocity. 

They'd fought before, of course – often with real intent to harm, but this fight was different, and Peter realized ruefully just how much he relied on his super-abilities in fights. Wade was relentless, a creative, unpredictable fighter that put Peter on the defensive and kept him there. 

Peter retreated almost unconsciously, until he found himself against the brick of the short perimeter wall parapet on the far side of the terrace. 

“Okay, enough of this,” he said. He stepped into Wade, catching him by surprise. He used the wall for leverage and with his superior strength brought him down. They fell hard, Peter on top. Wade's head hit the cement with an audible thunk. He looked dazed, but it wouldn't take him long to recover, and Peter couldn't afford sympathy if he wanted to win the fight. 

He sat on Wade's chest, his thighs pinning his arms. Peter laid a hand on Wade's throat, squeezing ever so slightly. “Yield.”

“Fuck no,” Wade said, and Peter squeezed a little harder, until he was visibly struggling for breath. Wade struggled, rolling and bucking, but Peter was able to hang on, using his free hand to steady himself. Wade's efforts became weaker, finally settling. 

“ _Yield_ ,” Peter said, leaning forward so that his face was inches from Wade's. Wade nodded, fractionally, without the breath to speak. Peter took a deep breath for him, sealed his mouth over Wade's, and released his grip so that the first breath Wade took was from his own lungs. When he broke the kiss Wade took several gulping breaths. 

“That's cheating,” Wade complained. His eyes had a slightly glazed look, oxygen deprivation or desire, Peter wasn't sure. Probably both. 

“Well … yeah,” Peter replied. He shifted, freeing Wade's arms, and Wade took the opportunity to slide them up his thighs to cup his ass, sitting up as he did so, with Peter sliding back into his lap. He could feel Wade's erection against him, and his own cock had gotten hard and insistent at some point in the proceedings. 

Wade kissed him deeply, and Peter ran his fingers along the slope of his shoulders and arms, exploring the sharp planes of muscle. Peter made an involuntary little moan as Wade worked his way down his ear and licked the shell.

“Have I earned privileges yet?” Wade asked. 

“Hm?” Peter said, tilting his head to allow better access. 

“These kinds of privileges,” Wade said, and cupped Peter's erection through the front of his pants. 

“Oh, yes, I think so,” Peter managed, and ground his hips into Wade's palm. “But, maybe we should move this to the bedroom.”

“Meh, nobody can see us,” Wade protested.

“I bet they can,” Peter said with a nod to a nearby high-rise which rose several stories above Wade's building. Now that he was paying attention, he could see that several people had come out onto their balconies to watch the show. 

“They don't caaaaare...”

“Oh crap, I think that guy's got his phone out. Shit,” Peter stood, nearly falling over as Wade tried to hold onto him. Wade grumbled but quickly followed as he retreated back indoors. 

Wade was on him before he could finish closing the blinds, pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, up and over Peter's head. Wade's hands were large and warm, kneading the small of his back, drawing him in for another kiss. Peter fumbled with Wade's clothing, his haste making the task more difficult. Wade worked Peter's fly open, shoving his pants down his legs. Peter tried to help free himself but overbalanced and tripped, luckily landing on a couch. Wade followed him down, kneeling between Peter's knees. He had Peter's cock out and in his mouth before Peter could even try to finish stripping. 

Peter sagged back into the couch, watching Wade's mouth work over his cock. Wade nosed his balls, taking a deep breath, scenting him, shoving Peter's knees wider for better access – difficult considering his pants were still around his ankles. 

“Jesus,” Peter said, as Wade's wet mouth closed over the head of his cock while strong fingers wrapped around the base, working in unison. “They weren't kidding when they called you the merc with the mouth.”

Wade mmmm'ed in agreement, but didn't stop. He still wore his mask over his eyes, and Peter reached down to slip his fingers under it, pushing it back and off, his fingers coming to rest on the back of Wade's head. Wade hesitated, looking as self-conscious as someone can with a cock in their mouth. 

“Just admiring the view,” Peter said, applying a little pressure. “Don't stop.”

Wade picked up his rhythm again, and Peter came dangerously close to finishing. 

“Ah, mmm –” he said, his breathing coming out fast and his hips involuntarily twitching. “This is your warning, I'm about to –”

Wade only redoubled his efforts, and the sight of him, his expression one of earnest concentration – so different from his usual sardonicism – was somehow endearing and unspeakably hot. With a shudder that wracked his entire body, Peter came. Wade swallowed messily, saliva and come running down his chin. He wiped his mouth on the hem of his shirt and then yanked it over his head. 

Peter freed himself from his pants. Wade was still on the floor at his feet. He leaned forward and kissed him, the taste of his own come in Wade's mouth. “Strip and go lie on the bed. I'll be there in a minute.”

Peter retreated to the bathroom to clean himself up. He splashed cold water on his face, and examined his own reflection. He needed a haircut and there was a scrape along his cheek from their fight – he wasn't quite sure how he'd acquired it. There were shadows under his eyes, but that was sort of permanent now. He didn't look like a person who knew what the fuck he was doing. He looked tired and uncertain and utterly ordinary. 

What the fuck was he doing? Wade Wilson was certifiable, a criminal who'd done things Peter didn't want to think about. And Peter had a feeling that Wade had loved him since the first time they'd met. If psycho murderers really felt love. Peter couldn't save him, couldn't change him, and certainly couldn't keep him from his path of destruction. He was in over his head. He should walk out now. Gather his clothes and what was left of his dignity and get out. Manage whatever fallout came from breaking Deadpool's heart. 

The thought gave him an odd achey feeling in his chest, somewhere just under his sternum. He'd sort of gotten used to having Wade around. He was hot, and his blowjob skills were topnotch. Plus, he'd made a commitment – to at least get Wade out of this current mess with Alecto. After this had blown over, he could let Wade down easy. Maybe set up some kind of friends-with-benefits situation. Surely, once they were past the first flush of … of whatever this was, Wade would realize that the idea of a serious relationship was ridiculous.

Things would work themselves out and they'd go back to the status quo. Peter took a deep breath and exited the bathroom. 

Wade's bedroom was decorated in a modern style, white-on-white, dominated by a king-sized bed. A huge bank of industrial windows lined the wall behind the bed, with a view out over the city. A lamp on the bedside table was turned on, casting a soft glow over the room. Wade lay in the center of the bed, face-up, his hands tucked behind his head. The light threw his body into sharp chiaroscuro relief, lining the jut of his cheekbones and the swell of his biceps and thighs. 

He looked over as Peter entered. “You really are beautiful.”

The compliment made Peter self-conscious. “Still waiting for my big modeling break.” For one horrible moment, he had no idea where to begin, and Wade's expectations felt like an almost physical weight. Peter laid down on the bed, propping himself up on an elbow, and ran his free hand down the side of Wade's face and neck.

“Kiss me,” he said, and Wade enthusiastically complied, mouth opening under Peter's and meeting Peter's tongue with his own. Peter felt lazy, comfortable, and was content to do more than kiss. Wade's arms had come up around him, his large hand stroking down Peter's back to cup his buttocks, kneading and groping. Wade’s erection was between them, and his hips were working as he tried to make use of the friction between their bodies. For a little while, Peter allowed it, though he made no move to provide further stimulation. 

“You're absolutely shameless,” Peter said, as Wade grew particularly insistent in his grinding, and pulled away. Wade whimpered a protest, but Peter felt no sympathy. He gripped Wade's wrists and placed them on the bed before disentangling himself. “ _Stay_ ,” he said, half order, half warning.

Peter lightly drew his fingers from Wade’s wrists up to his arms, then across his chest and down his stomach. Wade shivered, and his hips hitched hopefully, but Peter ignored his cock, continuing the path down his thighs and shins. 

“You're a damn tease, Peter Parker,” Wade said, sounding breathy. 

“Shut it,” Peter said mildly. He ran one finger down Wade's instep. Wade's foot jerked away involuntarily. “Ticklish, huh.”

“You tell anyone--”

“Yeah, yeah, your secret's safe with me.” Peter moved, positioning himself between Wade's spread legs. He thumbed the dip under Wade's hipbones, admiring the taut muscle. He propped himself up to get closer, and he could smell the hot musk scent of aroused male. Slowly, slowly, Peter lowered his head and licked a thin stripe up Wade's cock, which jumped in response. Wade sucked a breath in through his teeth as Peter took hold of him and slipped the head of Wade's cock into his mouth. 

Wade's cock might have been the most attractive thing about him: thick, straight and flushing a pleasing shade of pink at the tip. It was also the part of him least affected by awful scarring. Peter ran his tongue along the ridge, enjoying Wade’s shuddery breaths and the warmth and salt taste at the tip of Wade's cock.

He settled into a slow rhythm, picking up only to stop when Wade's cock grew even harder in his mouth. Peter pulled off completely, and for a second, he thought he'd pushed too far and that Wade was going to come. For a long moment, Wade teetered on the edge of orgasm, swearing a blue streak, but he didn't spill himself. 

“Oh, you are cruel,” Wade said, shivering. 

“You did call me a tease,” Peter said. “I didn't want to disappoint.”

“I don't consider it a good thing,” Wade retorted, his expression almost comically pained. 

“No?” Peter asked. He judged it safe enough to drag his nails lightly down the inside of Wade's thighs. “I kind of think you like it. Like it a lot actually.”

“If I wanted blue balls I could … just continue to live my life as usual, actually.”

“If you want me to leave, I can,” Peter said. Wade's erection had subsided some, and Peter lowered his mouth back down towards it, looking up at Wade through his lashes. “If you're not happy ...” 

“Fuck,” Wade said, and Peter laughed. 

Peter stroked a little faster this time, bringing Wade to the edge quickly. And just when Wade's fingers were fumbling at the sheets and his eyes had closed, Peter pulled off again.

Wade made a guttural noise of protest and frustration and reached to grab his own cock. Peter grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply. 

“You try and touch yourself again, and I'm tying you up,” Peter said, the humor gone from his voice. Wade shivered, cock twitching. Peter held onto him for a moment longer and then let go. Wade obediently – if somewhat reluctantly - placed his arm back down by his side. “Good boy.” Peter placed a sucking kiss in the dip of Wade's hipbone. It was a shame Wade’s hickeys healed almost immediately. He really wanted to mark that hip. “I want to be sweet to you, Wade. But you've got to earn it.” 

“I'm tryin' here,” Wade said. “Really, I am.”

Peter shifted up onto his hands and knees over Wade to kiss him. Wade held very still, as if his hand really had been bound to the bed. 

“I know,” Peter said. He kissed him again, lingering; Wade had a very soft mouth, surprisingly generous for a man. When his neck started to complain about the angle, he moved back down. “I think I can get you closer this time.”

Wade came to full hardness quickly under his attentions, and Peter wasted no time. Wade's hips were bucking in time to the rhythm Peter set. He considered pulling back, but at some point his own cock had taken an interest and he now longed for Wade's release almost as much as Wade himself. Peter doubled-down, he jaw was beginning to complain just a bit at the stretch, but he ignored it, pushing harder. 

With a wordless cry and a body-wracking shudder, Wade came, the hot spurt of come hitting the back of Peter's throat. He sort of swallowed, but mostly let it run out over his chin and onto Wade stomach.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Wade said, panting. “You have a gift.”

Peter moved to straddle Wade's lap, grinding his hardening cock against Wade's slick belly. Wade shifted, pushing himself up into a seated position, which allowed Peter better purchase against him. Peter caught Wade's mouth with his own, still messy with come and spittle. Wade didn't recoil and instead pressed back against Peter with almost painful pressure. 

The friction was sweet, but too inconsistent to push him over, especially since he'd already come once that evening. But then Wade's large hand closed around him, calloused and almost too rough, jerking him. Peter orgasm hit him hard, the release so raw it was almost unpleasant. He hissed, suddenly sensitive and over-stimulated, and Wade released his grip. He slipped his arms around Peter's waist so that they were wrapped around each other, Peter still in his lap. 

Peter was by no means petite, and he wasn't used to his lovers being larger than he was, but there was something about Wade's bulk, the comforting expanse of his shoulders and the heft to his arms, that was viscerally pleasing. Peter didn't care to think too much about why exactly that was. 

His knees began to complain, and he was suddenly and acutely aware of the mess drying on his skin. 

“Do you mind if I use your shower?”

“Not at all,” Wade said, stretching and sprawling out on the bed. “There are towels under the sink.”

Peter showered quickly, wondering why Wade had such an impressive collection of shampoos – which was strange for someone who didn't have hair. Peter felt a prickle of jealousy as he wondered if other people had been staying over and leaving their toiletries. Exhausted and sated in equal measure, he toweled off and went to bed. Peter was only vaguely aware of the shower running after he’d left the bathroom, and was already half asleep when Wade crawled in behind him. An arm snaked around his waist, a hand coming to rest along his ribs. Wade was whispering something in his ear, but the words melted into warm nothing and sleep overtook him. 

\---

He woke up disoriented, and it took him a moment to figure out where the hell he was. The bed was empty, and it was still completely dark. His phone had been left somewhere with his pants, and he couldn’t check the time, but he guessed it was around 3AM. 

He got up, making his way by feel back out to the living room and recovering his boxers and t-shirt. He thought maybe Wade had left the apartment, but caught sight of him through the window out on the terrace. 

Yawning, Peter padded out. The concrete was cold under his bare feet, and the wind had picked up since sunset. He joined Wade and leaned over to look at the street below. 

“Hey, boss.”

“Hey,” Pete said, still feeling sleep fogged and dull. “What're you doing? S'the middle of the night.”

Wade shrugged. “I'm not a great sleeper.”

“Insomnia?”

“Something like that, I guess. It's a lot harder to keep from thinking at night.”

“Yeah, you're not wrong.” He leaned into Wade, a point of warmth in the chilly night air. “Come back inside. We can watch a movie or something. But you don't get to stand out here staring into the night and brooding.”

“But I look so good doing it.”

“No arguments there.” Peter hooked his arm through Wade's and pulled him back toward the door. Wade let himself be led. They settled on the couch, turned on the TV with the volume low, and watched the _Casablanca_ on Turner Classic Movies. “I've never seen this all the way through, you know.”

“No? It's one of my favorites.” Peter curled up against Wade, his chest tucked under his chin. He could feel the vibration of his vocal chords, a warm rumble under his cheek. “That Bogart wasn't much to look at but he had some style. Kind of a role model of mine.”

“You've got style, not exactly sure what kind, but you got it,” Peter murmured. He half-watched, half-drowsed, shifting from time to time to keep a limb to keep from falling asleep. While Ilsa was confronting Rick in the deserted cafe, he realized that Wade had fallen asleep, the rise and fall of his chest deep and even. Peter considered turning off the TV then, but couldn't quite be bothered to reach for the remote. 

He fell back asleep to the sound of Wade's heartbeat and _As Time Goes By_ in his ear. 

\---

Peter’s sleep was interrupted by the early morning sunshine streaming through the window. Wade was still asleep, his face relaxed and pillowed on his hand. Peter had almost gotten used to his mangled features. There had been a time when he couldn’t see past the scars and lesions, and had preferred when Wade wore his mask. Back then, he'd considered the mask to be Wade's true face. Now Peter preferred when Wade didn't wear the mask, and Peter could read his expressions unobstructed. 

He extracted himself from Wade's embrace, moving slowly and carefully to avoid waking him. Hungry, Peter went in search of breakfast, but Wade didn't have much - a half empty box of donut holes and the sugar at the bottom of a bag of Frosted Flakes. He did have flour, though, and with some rummaging Peter found salt, baking soda, butter, and expired eggs. They’d have to do. He knew Aunt's May's pancake recipe by heart, and after a few minutes he had a pretty decent batch going. 

“Are you making me pancakes?” 

Peter turned to see Wade watching him from the doorway. “No, I'm making myself pancakes, but I'll let you have some. Do you have syrup?”

“I've got jelly,” Wade said with a shrug. 

“I can probably make that work.” Peter retrieved it from the fridge. He heated some water in a pan and added the jelly, stirring until it'd reached an appropriately syrupy consistence. 

Wade made very strong coffee and they sat at the island and ate their pancakes.

“Did you want to catch a movie today?” Wade asked. 

“Oh, I dunno. I really need to go home. I need a change of clothes.” 

“Or we could just stay in, then you won't need any,” Wade said with a teasing smile. 

“Tempting, but I've got real life stuff to take care of. My phone is dead, and I need my charger. Unless you've got an iPhone charger.”

“But I'll see you later, right?”

“Yeah.” Peter kissed him a brief goodbye. 

\---

He showered again, and shaved – Wade hadn't had any razors, which made sense, since he also didn't have any hair – and put on his spider suit. He wanted to do a quick patrol of the summit. He wasn't sure what exactly he was going to do if a bunch of death gods decided to act up, but he felt like he should make an effort. 

He stopped on the way to intervene in a purse-snatching, but still managed to make it across town. He decided to set up a lookout post across the convention after doing a circuit around the building. On his round, he saw a hotdog cart was set up outside. One of the people in line looked up, and Peter saw that it was the jackal-headed god. A shiver went through him. 

The god walked toward him, the glow of his red eyes menacing, though that menace was undercut somewhat by the hot dog in his hand. 

“Hey, you,” he said, looking up at Peter. 

“Can I help you?” Peter said, attempting a nonchalant tone.

“Doubtful,” the god said. He ate the hotdog in one large bite, licking the crumbs from his chops. “But I wanna talk to you.”

Peter reluctantly dropped down to the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Is it true that guy Deadpool killed a couple of Alecto's guys?”

“Yes, it was a misunder--”

The god made a sharp barking sound, which Peter realized was laughter. “Good, I fucking hated those guys. They're so fucking annoying, Jesus. Too bad he didn't get them all. I'd do it myself but, you know, professional courtesy.”

“Uh, yes, sir. Your highness?”

“It's just Anubis. I don't really stand on ceremony. Least not anymore.” He grinned, revealing a very sharp set of canines. 

“Okay,” Peter said.

“And he mooned her, too?”

“That is my understanding, but I didn't witness it. It sounds like something he would do.” Peter shrugged.

Anubis howled with more sharp laughter. “Perfect.”

“She’s going to take him to the underworld if he doesn't apologize.”

“If all he has to do is apologize, he's getting off easy. Still, I can promise you she'll really make him grovel.”

“He swears he's not going to do it. He'd rather go to hell.”

“Good for him. Nice that someone's standing up to the old bat.”

“She's serious, though, right?”

“Oh yeah, she'll definitely take him. There's not much anyone else can do if that's what she's decided. He offended her, and so she's got every right to condemn him. People have gotten sent down for a lot less, believe me.”

“There's got to be something.”

Anubis shrugged. “It's not a fair system. Don't blame me; I don't make the rules.”

“Surely there’s something I can do.”

“Get him to apologize, that's about it. If you can't do that, he's going down.”

“To be tortured for all eternity.”

“Pretty much,” Anubis agreed. “She might get tired of him after awhile, it's happened a few times.”

“How long?”

“Oh, maybe a few thousand years. I wouldn't necessarily count on it though. Your friend seems like he's really good at annoying her.” 

“Yes, annoying people is one of his many gifts.” Peter rubbed his face through the mask. “What can I do?”

Anubis shrugged again. “He owe you any money?” 

“No.”

“Then nothing left to do but say your goodbyes.”

“Shit.” There was a weird lump at the back of Peter's throat, and he struggled to swallow. “We're … I don't know. Boyfriends sounds stupid, but we're sort of together, I think. It's complicated.”

“Sorry, kid,” Anubis said. “That's rough.”

“Just how bad is it?” Peter asked, knowing his desperation made him sound foolish. “With the eternal torture and everything. He's tough. He's a survivor.”

“Oh it doesn't really matter how tough he is. No mortal can withstand it. If you ever get him back, there won't be much left. And time doesn't matter on the other side, so even if you were to get him back the next day, it might as well be an eternity to him. His brain would be jelly. He'd basically cease to exist.”

A wave of nausea hit Peter; he was going to puke. “I can't let that happen.”

“Sure,” Anubis said, unimpressed. “Good luck with that.”

“I'm going to make him apologize if it kills us both.” Peter said, already getting a running start as he slung web off the corner of the nearest building, working up the momentum to leave the ground. 

“All right, little spider,” Anubis called after him. “You go get 'em!”

\---

Wade's apartment was unlocked, and Peter let himself in. Wade was on the couch, wearing a ratty Ramones t-shirt and boxer shorts. He looked up as Peter entered, and relief and happiness evident in his expression. 

“Hi honey, did you have a good day?”

Peter could think of nothing to say, studying the tableau before him with an odd mix of affection, desire and annoyance, and, below all of it, the steady thrum of fear. 

“You love me?” he asked, abruptly.

Wade looked surprised, then concerned. “It's not one of my better kept secrets.”

“Prove it. Make the damn apology.”

“To quote my own personal muse and inspiration, Meatloaf - 'I would do anything for love. But I won't do that.'” Wade shrugged, almost apologetic. His mood was strange. Agitation was usually Wade's natural state, and conflict made him punchy, riled him up. But now he seemed utterly calm, his shoulders relaxed, his face set, but not angry or annoyed – maybe a little sad. It was Peter who was twitchy and unsettled, fighting the urge to pace or punch the wall. 

“I don't understand,” Peter said, defeated.

“You don't have to save me. You can't,” Wade said. “It's out of your control.”

“I don't accept that.”

“Of course not, you're a control freak.”

“I'm not a control freak,” Peter said, and Wade gave him a disbelieving look. “Okay, I might be a _little_ controlling.” 

“It's not a criticism,” Wade said. “If you were good at accepting the way things were, you wouldn't be Spider-man. You wouldn't be a hero.” He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Peter. Peter resisted a moment, rigid and unyielding, not ready to give in, but the warmth and bulk of Wade pressed against him was irresistible, and he melted into the embrace despite himself. 

“Let's not fight, eh?” Wade said. “I don't want to fight. I just want to spend the night with you. Grant a condemned man a last wish?”

“I still don't accept this,” Peter said, but allowed Wade to take his mouth in a soft kiss. 

“I know.” Wade pushed and pulled him toward the bed, tugging off clothing as they went. He took his time, his unhurried movements belied by the rock-hard erection tenting the front of his boxers. He traced the rise of Peter's shoulder and neck with his lips. “God, you're beautiful,” he murmured into Peter's ear. He backed Peter into the edge of the bed, and they tumbled onto it.

They made out for awhile, a slow mingling of tongues and light caresses which left goosebumps in their wake. Peter tried to savor it, tried not to think about how infuriating Wade was. Tried not to think about tomorrow. But the harder he tried to set those thoughts aside, the more persistently they came back. 

Wade paused, pulling away so he could look at Peter's face. “Hey now, you're far away.” 

Peter tried to smile. “Sorry, I'll focus.”

Wade kissed him again. “Will you fuck me?” 

“Are you saying that to get my attention? Because you have it.”

“Come on, don't make me ask again.” 

Peter hesitated, eager but a little intimidated. “Yeah, okay.” He kissed Wade again, buying time to calm his racing heartbeat. He didn't want to rush and hurt Wade through his own eagerness. He could tell Wade was a little impatient, trying to move things along, but he didn't let that hurry him. He rolled away to grab the lube and started pulling and positioning Wade until he was on his stomach, a pillow under his hips. 

He trailed his fingers lightly up and down Wade's back and thighs, watching as Wade twitched and bucked a little. 

“That tingles,” Wade said, not quite a complaint. “You don't have to observe the niceties, you know. You can just dive right in.” 

“I like the niceties.” 

Wade shuddered again as Peter's finger strayed to the cleft of his buttocks. Peter spent awhile playing with him, lying pressed against Wade's side so he could nibble the shell of his ear while his fingers explored farther south. He circled the tight ring of muscle, finally slipping one well-lubed finger in. 

“Okay?” 

Wade's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, his breath coming hard and fast. “Oh. Oh yeah, I'm okay.” 

Peter added another finger, and carefully worked them in and out until Wade was bucking a little in time with the thrusts, trying to push himself further on Peter's fingers. When Peter removed his fingers, Wade whimpered a soft protest, which was cut off as Peter's cock entered him. Peter moved slowly until he'd sheathed himself entirely. He thrust once, and then again, laying most of his weight on Wade. 

“C'mere,” Peter said, and shifted so they rolled as a unit onto their side, spooning. The position didn't allow much leverage, but he could prop himself up on an elbow as he curled around and into Wade. He could press lingering kisses to the curve of Wade's neck, could also reach down with a lube-slick hand and stroke Wade in time with his thrusts. Wade was thick and hard in his hand, and Peter couldn't help but move a little faster as Wade's need became his own. 

Wade came first in a shuddering orgasm that pulled Peter over the edge with him. His orgasm felt like a long crescendo that started deep in his stomach and rolled over his body in long waves. He sagged against Wade through the aftershocks, his face pressed to the back of Wade's neck. 

They stayed curled together like that for some time, and Peter reluctantly pulled out with a hiss at the sensation on his over-sensitive cock. 

Peter got out of bed just long enough to clean himself up and gulp down a glass of water, before he lay back down next to Wade and was quickly asleep. 

\---

Peter woke just after five, alone, Wade's side of the bed empty and cold. Peter hurriedly dressed and dashed out the door, nearly forgetting his mask in the process.

It wasn't quite sunrise when Peter arrived at the pier, the eastern sky warming to indigo and violet above the skyline. The pier was nearly empty, just an old man sitting in a faded folding chair, a line trailing in the water, and an open tackle box at his feet. 

Wade was sitting on a bench, looking out over the river. He looked up at Peter's approach, and, for once, Peter couldn't read his expression under the mask. 

Peter took a seat next to him, and for a long while, said nothing, just watched the sky turn violet to lavender to palest rose. 

“So you're really doing this," Peter said, finally.

“Yep.”

“And nothing I say can change your mind?”

“Nope.”

“You'd rather go to hell than apologize.”

“Yep.”

“Damn it,” Peter said. He yanked his own mask off so he could scrub his gritty eyes with the palms of his hands. “Why?”

Wade shrugged. “It's just the way it is. I don't expect you to understand. I'm sorry.”

“Okay, so you can actually say those two words. I was beginning to have my doubts.”

“Don't be angry with me,” Wade said. His voice sounded tired and infinitely sad, so different from his usual mocking insouciance. “If I had a choice, I'd apologize – I'd kiss her ass if that's what it took.”

“I'm not angry,” Peter said, and found that he really wasn't, his frustration having faded into a kind of resignation. “I just don't get it.”

“You don't have to.” Wade hesitated. “Will you kiss me?”

Peter leaned in and kissed him. It was softer and sweeter and sadder than any kiss they'd shared, and he knew with a sharp twist somewhere in his gut that it was a kiss goodbye.

“Ah, true love. It makes us sick.”

They both jumped, breaking the kiss. Alecto stood before them, flanked by several of her death-priests. It was one of the priests – a runty, angry looking one on the left who'd spoken. 

Wade came to his feet, yanking his mask into place. “You! I killed you,” he said to the priest. 

“That's the thing about being a death-priest,” the man said. “Getting killed tends to be a temporary condition.”

“Yeah, I've run into the same problem,” Wade shot back, reaching for his katana. “Better get your punch card out.”

“Enough!” Alecto spoke, the power in her voice silencing both of them. “We tire of this petty feud. Hast thou anything to say to us?”

“Nope, I ain't even sorry that I'm not sorry, sweetcheeks. Guess you'll just have to take me away. Whatever hell you've got going on, trust me, I've seen worse.”

“We shall see about that. It's been a thousand years since we had a victim we have looked forward to breaking as much as thee, Deadpool.” The air behind Alecto shimmered and dissolved as a portal opened, the edges crackling, shot through with green and gold fire. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Wade replied, his old mocking tone was back – and, Peter thought, a lie. “You think you're the first dame to say that to me?” He moved to join Alecto and her party as they started for the portal. 

“Wait!” Peter cried. They paused and looked back at him. “Just wait for a minute.”

“We haven't the time for this,” Alecto said. 

“Take me,” Peter said, not realizing until he'd spoken the words aloud that he'd actually decided to say them. “Take me in his place.” Alecto's expression shifted from annoyed to speculative, and Peter pressed further. “Look, you don't want him, anyway. He's incredibly annoying. I offer myself instead – that's got to be one of the rules – willing victim, life for a life, yada yada.”

“No,” Wade said. “I did the crime, I'll do the time. Come on.” The last part was directed to the priests and Alecto. Wade made for the portal with wide, ground-eating steps.

“Hold,” Alecto ordered, holding up a hand to halt their progress. “Let us consider this most interesting offer.” She crossed her arms, her gaze sweeping up and down Peter as though evaluating. “Yes, all right. We accept this deal. Come along, little man-spider.”

“NO!” Wade shouted, drawing his katanas. Or at least he tried too. Alecto made a flicking motion with one hand and he froze in place, the swords half out of their scabbards. 

Peter hesitated as he passed Wade, then reached out to touch a knuckle to Wade's chin. “Here's looking at you, kid.” 

“Please don't...” Wade said in a hoarse whisper, and he might have said more, but Peter was already being pulled along, priests at each elbow, escorting him away. 

With one last backward glance, Peter stepped stepped into the crackling energy and through the portal.

\---

When he woke – or suddenly came to awareness, since he wasn't sure he'd ever actually been asleep – it took him several long moments to orient himself. He was standing in a long open-air colonnade, with a view of a meadow and rolling hills beyond. The sun was shining. There was a breeze carrying the slight salt-tang of the ocean. 

“Huh,” Peter said. “Not what I was expecting.”

“We are rather fond of it.”

He turned to see Alecto reclining on a couch in an inner garden enclosed by the columns. There was a pool with a small fountain. She shed her armor for a plain blue chiton, girt just below her breasts. 

“I was expecting more fire. Brimstone, maybe?”

“Oh, that's Tartarus. This is Elysium. As thou hast not committed any offense, thou art allowed in this place.” 

“And Deadpool?”

“Straight to they abyss.” She paused and considered him. “Why didst thou take his place?”

“I don't think he could stand that kind of torture. His mental state is … precarious. I couldn't let that happen to him.”

“He means a great deal to thee.”

“Yes, he does.”

“That any one one feels affection for that idiot never ceases to amaze me.” This came from the same snarky death-priest who Peter was really starting to hate. “I have to admit that my prophesy worked even faster than I had anticipated.”

“Prophecy?” Peter said. 

“Our priests are known for their ability to prophesize. It is one of the reasons they are so feared,” Alecto said, shrugging slightly. “Curtis is particularly gifted.” She nodded at the annoying priest.

“What prophecy are you talking about?”

“Lady, if I may?” Curtis said. 

“If thou must,” Alecto said, with a dismissive wave. 

Curtis straightened, cleared his throat and began to recite:

 _“Gibbering fool you may be,_  
_Harken to this prophecy._  
_See before you this specter loom:_  
_That the one you love, you doom._  
_And cursed to spend each day in sorrow,_  
_wondering will he be here tomorrow?_  
_You can't save him; it's far too late -_  
_Your love has sealed his mortal fate.”_

Peter felt suddenly cold. “You told that to Deadpool.”

“Mmm, yes,” Curtis confirmed. “He'd called me short – I am of average height, I'll have you know – just impudence to one of my lady's servants. So I created a little something to keep him up at night. It's not even a true prophecy. Just a little bit of self-fulfilling folderol. Worked like a charm, though.”

“Well, it all makes sense now, at least,” Peter said, feeling bile at the back of his throat. “He believed you, because of course he did – he half-believed he was going to doom people he loved before some smug, arrogant little underworld bureaucrat made up some BS prophesy. And whatever his personality flaws, he'd go straight to hell if he thought it meant protecting me.”

“Yes, he does seem to be particularly attached to thee,” Alecto observed. She took a goblet from the waiting tray of one of her servers and took a long sip. “We admit we have been curious enough to observe a great many of thy interactions over the past few days.”

“Surely not ...”

“Oh, yes,” she said with a nod. “Then, too.”

“That's incredibly creepy,” Peter said. 

She shrugged, unbothered by his assessment. “We were curious what motivates a man like the Deadpool.”

Peter said, getting distracted. “We've only been together – if that's what you'd call it -- for what amounts to a long weekend. I'll admit he seems to have been hung up on me for awhile, but if you hadn't noticed, he's not the most stable person. Maybe I'm just taking advantage of him. ” He sank down onto the base of one of the columns, elbows propped on his knees. “I mean I'm pretty fucked up too. I may not have quite as many issues straight out of the DSM-IV, but there's still a lot going on up here.” He made a vague gesture at his temple. 

“What did thou expect, a romantic comedy?” Alecto asked with a derisive snort. “If thou don't love him, why did thou take his place? Thou anticipated an eternity of suffering and torture. We have seen more than one lover who professed unending devotion then chose differently when offered the same dilemma.”

“You're right - I used to think love was supposed to be easy, like a movie. I've been in love before – what I think was love, anyway. And it pales in comparison to what I feel for Deadpool. Sometimes he drives me crazy. He can be incredibly obnoxious and makes some really bad life decisions. It might not be a pretty love. But it is love.”

“Oh, _babe_ ,” a familiar voice came, followed a moment later by Wade himself appearing from behind one of the columns. “That was _beautiful_.”

For a moment, everyone stood in shocked silence. Alecto's jaw hung open, her expression of bafflement and annoyance almost comical. 

“How?” she managed, once she got her jaw working again. “How is this possible?”

“I had a little help. Friends in low places, don't cha know?” Wade said, nodding to a figure behind him. A woman with a skull mask stepped forward. No, not a skull mask – she was an actual skeleton in a cowled robe. 

“Hey, Alecto,” she said, sounding smug. 

“Thou opened the gate for him?!” Alecto said, outraged. 

“Little bit,” the skeleton confirmed. “We go way back.” 

“Come on, Spidey,” Wade said. “Let's get out of here.”

“Okay,” Peter managed, not quite keeping up with the turn of events. “Uh, who's this?”

“Oh, I'm Death – I don't always carry the scythe, but you'd think that this,” she gestured to her general skeleton-ness, “would give it away.”

“She's also one of my exes. Hope this isn't awkward.”

“No, of course not,” Peter said. “Nice to meet you, Death.”

“Stop,” Alecto said. “Thou may have gotten Deadpool here without our permission, but some rules can't be broken, even by you, Death. Peter gave up Life of his own will through a fair bargain. He can't leave without my permission.”

“Sure, not going to argue with you there.” Death shrugged, a rather sharp and boney affair. “But your priests can only pass through the veil because of me. I can close it to them, so that they must remain here. And then who would do your bidding?”

Alecto's eyes narrowed. “Thou wouldst not dare.”

“Oh but I would,” Death replied, crossing her arms. “Your little minions have been getting in my way for millennia, mucking up things with their useless prophecies and increasing my workload. I would just love an excuse to keep them out of my hair. So to speak.”

“Oh, _snap _!” Wade said, with a chortle.__

Alecto considered, her mouth drawn into an unhappy line. “Fine,” she said, finally. “Go.”

Wade grabbed Peter's arm and pulled him towards the portal, following Death.

"Oh, and, just one more thing - you're going to have to fish me out of the river."

"Wait, what?" Peter asked, but Wade yanked him through the portal instead of answering.

\---

There was a moment of profound disorientation before Peter found himself standing on the pier. Both Wade and Death had disappeared. He whirled, looking around, casting about for a glimpse of black and red. His gaze fell on the edge of the pier a few feet away. 

"Fish him out of the river," he muttered as a rather unfortunate idea occurred to him. He peered over into the dark water, which was still and calm. The old fisherman was still sitting out by the edge of pier, watching Peter apathetically. 

"Did you see a weirdo wearing a red-and-black suit jump in?" Peter asked. 

The fisherman's brow wrinkled as he considered the question. "Yep. Tied himself to a couple of cinder blocks first."

"And you didn't try and stop him."

"Didn't want him to take me with him."

"Fair enough," Peter conceded. "Can I use that rope?"

The fisherman shrugged. "Not mine."

"Great." Peter grabbed it - a thick, filthy length of nylon - and tied it to to one of those convenient ship-tying-up-post things. He was not very nautically inclined. He tied the other end around his waist. "I have serious concerns about the water quality. God, it smells bad." He took a deep breath and dove in. 

He should have been more worried about the water temperature, he realized as the icy water closed over him. He was a passable swimmer, but his skin went from cold to stinging in less than a minute. His lungs burned and he struggled downward, hoping with each stroke his numb fingers would brush Wade's body. Finding Wade was going to be the biggest challenge, he realized, even if he did make it down far enough. 

"To your right," a female voice said, directly in his mind. "Little more. There." He grazed something with his fingers and then fought wildly toward it before it could slip away. His fingers closed on some body part -- a wrist. He followed the arm down along Wade's body, and found a good grip on his belt. He'd never be able to swim with the added baggage, so he hooked his arm through the belt, until he could grip the rope. He then used his free arm to reach as high as he could and pull them up that one arm length. He then shifted the grip of the first hand and repeated the process. His lungs were a searing agony, and his brain had started to go a bit fuzzy. He was pretty sure his vision was going out, but couldn't say for certain in the murky water. He felt weak, his entire concentration on the rough rope under his fingers.

"Come on, just a bit more. Three feet and you're there!" the female voice came again. Probably wasn't a good sign if Death had started talking to him.

"Don't be so dramatic, I'm not here for you. One more --"

And Peter's head broke the surface of the water. He took deep, ragged breaths, trying to get as much of that sweet sweet oxygen as possible. One more heave and they were both over the side of the pier. Sprawled out, Wade's feet still chained to the cinder blocks. 

Peter fumbled with the rope, disentangling them with clumsy fingers. 

"Wade," he said, leaning over him. "How dead are you?"

A tremor passed through Wade, and then a violent shudder, and suddenly Wade was choking and vomiting filthy water. Peter rolled him on his side until the choking subsided. 

"Hey, Petey," he said, his voice hoarse. "You found me."

"Are you crazy? Why would you jump in the freaking Hudson?"

"I had to get Death's attention. Which means I couldn't been in good health. Anything else would have healed too quickly. Figured if I kept on drowning, I could get close enough to ask for a favor."

"I could hear her down there, when I was pulling you out."

"Yeah, this author has a habit of using female characters as audience stand-ins, so she was probably facilitating a happy ending."

"What?"

Wade started coughing again, spitting a sizable loogie on to the pier. "What?" he said, giving Peter a confused look, as if it was Peter who wasn't making sense. His look softened and melted into a sweet smile. He cradled the side of Peter's face. It was odd, Wade should have been cold, even colder than Peter, but his hand was already warmed, a point of welcome heat. 

“Do you really love me?” he asked. 

“Yes, I really do,” Peter said, shivering violently. “Can we please go? I need a very hot shower – I probably acquired MRSA from that water.”

Wade continued to smile at him beatifically, clearly in no hurry whatsoever. “I love you, too.”

“Yes, I know. That random guy over there knows. Most of New York has a pretty good idea.” 

“Why are you so mean?” Wade said plaintively, pouting in a way that Peter definitely shouldn't have found so endearing. “I died for you!”

“I went to hell for you, so I guess we're even.” Peter stood offering his hand to Wade, and pulling him to his feet. “Come on, let's go home.”


End file.
